


I Know This Beat Too Well

by vexbatch



Category: Marvel
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anal Sex, Bondage, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Consent Issues, D/s Vibes, Dark Phil Coulson, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Degradation, Dirty Talk, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Past Child Abuse, Past Underage Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Protective Natasha Romanov, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Tapes, blowjob, phil is slimy af in this one, seriously, so much noncon my guys, vengeance is an archer's best friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28466217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexbatch/pseuds/vexbatch
Summary: Clint is new with SHIELD, and the agent who recruited him is now his handler. This is just how handlers interact with their agents. Right?
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 36
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2020





	1. Back Alley Blowjob, Baybeeee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winter_angst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/gifts).



> Happy New Year! I've been chipping away at this fic for a long while, but I'm happy to say it's finally here! Winter_Angst, I hope you enjoy it.  
> A Note: Please read the tags. This fic gets dark, so please take care of yourselves. Also, the chapter titles get a little silly...These are what the chapters were called while I was writing, and since they brought me a smile while writing, I figured I might as well share them.
> 
> Thanks to the ever-patient Ravenclaw2313 who encouraged me, made sure I took breaks, and cheered this fic on to the last.

This was just how handlers interacted with agents.

Besides, didn’t the circus teach him anything? This was what Clint was worth, this was his true talent. Back alley blowjobs to make sure he kept his job, a roof over his head, money in his pocket. That’s all he was good for. A wet mouth.

There was a slick _pop_ , a gruesome noise that Clint had come to think of as meaning a job well done. Meaning that the sick feeling in his stomach would leave sooner. That he could slink back to his cot, curl up, and forget everything about this evening. 

Clint could feel that hand, still on the back of his head, as Phil’s voice floated down to him. “What a dirty slut you are. Go on, clean up after yourself. Lick me clean, _Agent_.”

Leaning forward, Clint carefully kept any reaction to the scathing tone off his face. He swept his tongue over Phil’s cock, as quickly as he could before it became too flaccid and he had to ask for his hands back. While he hadn’t been handcuffed yet tonight, Phil liked to instruct Clint to keep his hands out of the way and practice “good form”; back straight, letting Phil guide him all the way. It was different from Bill at the circus, but Bill also cared more about feeling good than being in control. That had ended up being extremely useful; it let Clint escape while Bill was enjoying a night with the new tightrope walker. 

Clint let his mind wander to the new bow waiting for him back in his room; it was a compound, barely used, the central riser made of carbon fiber. It was nicer than any bow he’d been allowed to own before, and Clint was looking forward to inspecting every inch of it when he got back, maybe waxing the string too. 

Letting his mind drift, Clint let his body follow the familiar actions until Phil pushed at his shoulder, bringing Clint back to himself, to the puddle he’d knelt in, to the crushed coffee cup and cigarette buts kicked against the wall, to his commanding officer, looming above him. 

“Good job, _agent_. You may have your hands; zip me up.”

That was new. A new measure of trust, of _control_. Phil usually did his own pants up, apparently because “how am I supposed to trust a circus brat like you to not damage something important?”

But now….well, a strange thrill went through him, the trust and the praise mixing as he zipped Phil up, careful to pay attention to what he was doing before sitting back on his haunches and looking up for further instruction. 

Phil brought a hand forward, tracing Clint’s jawline with a deceptive gentleness. “Maybe one of these times I should fill you up. What do you think of that?”

A shiver went through Clint, and he wasn’t sure what was causing it anymore. Did he want this? Was it revulsion, or ...or desire…

It didn’t matter what Clint thought; Phil had felt the shiver and chuckled darkly. “That’s my good slut. Next time, we’ll try something a little different.”

Clint shivered again, this time at the loss of the nearby body heat as Phil stepped away. He felt a whine building in his throat, but he didn’t think Phil would take kindly to that, and he didn’t want to admit to wanting _any_ of what just happened, so he swallowed it back down. 

“What’re you doing on the ground, Agent? Go back to your rooms, clean yourself up.” Phil smiled at him, cold and predatory, as Clint got to his feet, still a little shaky from so long on his knees. “Or perhaps you need medical? You’re positively _trembling_.”

The taunt was what slapped a smirk back on Clint’s face; any weakness that could be hidden, _should_ be hidden. “Just thinkin’ about how much I enjoyed my last mission. But thanks for your concern, _Phil_.” Clint winked, and cherished the disgruntled crinkle in Phil’s nose as the senior agent turned away. 

As soon as he was alone in the alleyway, Clint slumped against the wall. Sometimes he wondered how long he could do this...but that was just weakness. _Gotta do what needs to be done. Try harder next time, Barton._

Clint let himself take another moment before shoving off the wall and stalking back to the room SHIELD had designated for him. 

Just another fun night in the employ of a secret government agency.

↝↜❍↝🛡↜❍↝↜


	2. Give Us Some Backstory

It hadn't started like this. 

When he'd first run from Bill's circus, Clint had caught a train to New York. Not bought a ticket, caught it in the literal sense, once close enough that he only held on by the tips of his fingers. He'd learned something about quick reflexes in all his time there, which helped when jumping into and out of vehicles moving at a high velocity, but sometimes you just put your foot in the wrong place. 

Anyway, he'd ridden up to New York, trying to find a new crew to run with, someone who wanted a trick shot. So what if he pulled a little petty theft on the side to make sure he could eat? He only took from places that could afford it anyway. 

That is, until he burgled the wrong brownstone. Coulson had a nice place; sleek, modern, a safe tucked neatly behind a painting. What Clint  _ hadn't _ seen was the camera in the bedroom. 

Once Coulson reviewed the tapes and did a little digging, he'd convinced SHIELD to extend a job offer to Clint. As soon as he accepted and saw the smug look on his handler's face, Clint knew that Coulson was the one who had pulled the strings to make it happen. 

The first few weeks were mostly tests, training on SHIELD procedure and the like. It wasn't until after his first successful mission that Coulson had invited Clint into his office, asked him to close the door, and stood behind him, authority radiating from his three piece suit. 

That was part of why Clint couldn't tell if he wanted this, this thing between him and Phil. He  _ knew _ he was good at it; it came naturally to him. And Phil was in charge of him, kept him safe, made sure his needs were met. It was...nice. It felt like this was how Clint could pay Phil back. It didn't hurt that Phil  _ was _ attractive, especially with his voice lowered into the commanding tone he only took with Clint. The voice that always sent a shiver up Clint's spine. 

Maybe he was just broken. 

That'd been what Barney had said. 

“Why do you let that creep do that to you? You can’t just let people use you like that, Clint.”

Clint had shrugged, eyes focused on the fletching his hands were fiddling with. It wasn’t any use to indulge Barney’s rants; he was always angry about  _ some _ thing. Give it five minutes, he’d be on about the political climate or whatever. Best to just ignore it, and shrug when an answer was called for. 

“Hey, I asked you a question.” A calloused hand grabbed Clint’s chin, roughly tugging his face up until his eyes met Barney’s. “Answer me.”

Clint sulked with as much of his body as he could manage, leaning back against Barney’s grip. “‘s not like you’re much better,” he muttered, and immediately Clint knew he’d said the wrong thing.

“I am  _ nothing _ like that asshole,” Barney bit back, shoving Clint back until he stumbled into a trunk. “I  _ protect _ you, I  _ saved _ you!”

Clint didn’t say that technically, Bill protected them from being homeless, from starving. Clint didn’t say that Barney only hadn’t left him with their piece of shit foster family because  _ Clint _ had noticed that Barney was leaving. Clint didn’t say  _ what about all those times I got the beatings from dad and you just stood there _ .

Clint was so full of things he wasn’t saying that the silence stretched too long, and something broke inside of Barney. 

“Fine, if that’s all you’ve got to say, then FINE. Have fun on your own.”

That was the last time Clint had seen Barney. 

↝↜❍↝🛡↜❍↝↜


	3. Caught In An Office

That first time in the office was when Clint decided that he would never call the other man  _ Agent Coulson _ again, just Phil. He could tell it rankled Phil, to hear that dismissal of his position, the lack of respect, but not so much that Phil ordered him to stop. So Clint called him Phil whenever possible, flaunting the intimacy between them around anyone near enough to hear. Most other agents ignored him; they’d accepted that the carnie kid was disrespectful and weird, so Clint leaned into it. No one was going to save him here.

There had been a strange glance from Maria Hill. The first time Clint was called into Phil’s office while Agent Hill was leaving, Clint had draped himself across the doorway and called, “Phiiiiiiiiil? You rang?”

Agent Hill had cast a glance over her shoulder at Coulson, then back at Clint, confusion lying just beneath the surface as she brushed past him into the hallway. 

Phil had sighed. “Do you need to do that in front of  _ everyone? _ ”

Clint just stepped inside, closing the door behind him as the pit sank through his stomach again. He was beginning to think his stomach was just a well, with all that was dropping through it. “Well,” he smirked, turning and lacing amusement he didn’t feel into his voice. “Maybe I want to brag about our  _ intimacy _ , hmm?”

Phil had just chuckled, tapping the papers on his desk into a neat pile as Clint deflated internally.  _ It’s good he doesn’t care,  _ he told himself.  _ Neither should I. This doesn’t matter. _

↝↜❍↝🛡↜❍↝↜

That meeting had ended with Clint between Phil’s legs again, Clint cleaning the mess up as a knock came from the door. Clint stilled, not moving his head, but staring up at Phil’s frown. 

“Just go,” he hissed, shoving Clint back and zipping himself back up. Phil pushed himself up, glared briefly at Clint, and turned to move towards the door.

Clint took that moment to glance frantically around the office. Phil would be fine if a junior agent was found under his desk; he had the resources to blackmail himself to safety, but Clint would bet that no such net waited for himself. If he wanted to keep this job, the best job he’d ever had  _ including _ the drying jizz crusting on his chin, Clint would need to think on his feet.

_ There. _

A vent, directly above a table in the corner. Clint leapt to his feet, ignoring the pulsing from his used lips and the glare Phil shot at him, in favor of scrambling up the table, shoving the vent grating aside, and sliding in. 

It was safe there. Dark, confined, and Phil’s sigh was muffled by the metal walls. Clint crawled in a little further and heard the vent grate slot back down behind him. He shuffled a little farther, ignoring the pleasantries and Coulson’s terse tone in favor of focusing on getting away. The confined space was perfect, nearly the same in any building, the perfect way to pass unseen, past the judging eyes, above those who would leave as soon as you got attached. 

Clint crawled, alone and thrumming with success, back to his rooms. He was finally starting to feel at home here.

↝↜❍↝🛡↜❍↝↜


	4. Degradation Ho

There had been a week and a half downtime between the near-catastrophe in the office and Clint’s next mission. He savoured the extended break, spending his days either at the range alternating between his new bow and the guns he was assigned, or lounging in the rec room watching old reruns.

Clint tried not to think too hard about it, about how them almost getting caught was Clint’s fault, about how he was being punished for the close call, about how he saw almost no one in that week and a half. Most agents had already been keeping their distance from Clint, so the range usually cleared quickly once he arrived, and he really only left the compound to find the best pizza in the area. 

There was one agent that didn’t clear the range immediately as he entered. She was small with long red hair, and almost as new as Clint was himself. He sparred with her and occasionally was joined by her during some of the MASH marathons in the rec room, but otherwise did his best to not think too hard about her presence. Growing attached was dangerous, so he dismissed her glances as threat assessment, reasoned that she had no reason to follow him so he was just being paranoid when he felt someone stalking behind him down the hallways, or when he felt eyes on him as he entered Phil’s office.

After ten blessed days of silence however, Clint’s Gilmore Girls marathon was interrupted by a pinging from his SHIELD issued phone. It was a notification that a briefing was starting in half an hour in some conference room or other. He was supposed to arrive ready to roll out.

“Shit.”

Fifteen minutes later, Clint emerged from his rooms, freshly showered, decked in as many knives as he could hide on his person [right now it was thirteen, but he was betting that he could get it up to fifteen if he’d had more time], with a bow slung over his shoulder, a quiver on his hip. The alert hadn’t indicated what type of mission this would be, but he’d rather be overly deadly. You could always leave the bow in the hotel, but you couldn’t just magic up another knife.

Speaking of, that would be a great superpower: infinite knives. Or better yet, infinite arrows.

Clint made his way to the back corner of the conference room, choosing a seat against a wall to watch the rest of the relevant agents troop in. Looked like it would be a decently complicated mission, with at least 8 operatives, but Clint was distracted from counting when Phil finally walked in the room.

He was as straight-laced and rigid as ever, casting an icy gaze around the room until his eyes locked on Clint. Clint could feel the cold judgement weighing on him, but he didn’t break the stare, only watching as a furrow appeared on Phil’s brow momentarily, before his face reverted to the placid detachment he favoured, and Phil went back to counting the present agents. 

Clint let out a little breath when he was certain Phil’s gaze had moved off of himself, a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding, but the relief rushing through him would turn out to be too preemptive.

“Alright,” Phil said, and suddenly there was complete silence. “You’re on a mission to Raleigh. There’s talk of someone smuggling high-tech weapons, and we’ve pinpointed the location for a deal. Best case scenario, you disarm some regular thugs. Worst case scenario,” and at this, Phil’s icy glance cut back to Clint, “there’s a bunch of idiots running around with the same tech we’ve seen Doctor Doom with. Hopefully you don’t get yourselves killed while you’re out there, but with  _ this _ idiot on your team," and Phil nodded at Clint, "who can say.”

Frowning, Clint glanced at the other agents in the room. Most of them were holding a straight face, but he noticed a couple of them snickering quietly. Deciding it would be best to show the modicum of respect he didn’t necessarily feel, Clint asked “Who’s running point on this mission, sir?”

Phil pinned him with another steely glare as Clint thought through the past few days to try and figure out where he might have fucked something up, where he should have noticed something going on before Phil got  _ this  _ pissed at him, pissed enough to be taking it out in front of other agents. He kept coming up empty though as the snickers turned to laughing looks and passed notes, and Phil’s voice came to him, hard and cold. “ _ I _ will be running this one. There’s no one else we can trust to watch  _ you _ .”

What the fuck? What was with the biting tone? What had he  _ done? _

“You’re going in the field?” Someone else had chimed in, somewhere vaguely in Sitwell’s direction, but Clint ignored them, glaring daggers at Phil. If he was going to degrade Clint like this in fucking briefings, the other guys would be on him in an instant, giving them an opening to move from ignoring Clint to openly mocking him. The only outcome from this was to turn everyone here against him and…..Oh.

That’s what this was.

Not just a power play, but a test. Could he work this mission, even after being undercut, even with the snide remarks every other agent would have after this debacle of a debriefing?

Well, the Amazing Hawkeye was a creature mainly fueled by spite and coffee. Clint settled back into his chair and grinned as Phil continued on. He could do this.

↝↜❍↝🛡↜❍↝↜


	5. Tie Him Down, Phil

The mission hadn’t gone too poorly. The weapons were knock-offs made after the Green Goblin’s pumpkins, but only about half of them worked, and Clint had worked with the other sharpshooter to take out a good third of the thugs before all hell broke loose. They had gotten all the weapons dealers, all the weapons, and between all of them there had only been one cracked rib, and it hadn’t even been Clint’s. All in all, a mightily successful mission.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t good enough for Phil.

Clint had been called to Phil’s office nearly every day that he was at the compound, usually immediately after getting back from whatever latest mission Phil had sent him on. Apparently, humiliating Clint in front of a room full of other agents hadn’t been enough punishment, but he needed to take it out on Clint’s mouth or ass, in the office or in an alley near the compound, and on one memorable occasion, in the fucking plane under the guise of giving Clint a dressing down.

Well, he had gotten undressed anyway.

As Clint entered his quarters after the latest mission, dropping his duffel on the bed and about to flop down, a ping came from his pocket. Clint groaned up at the ceiling before pulling it out, wishing his aids weren’t quite so resilient. A half an hour breathing through a straw, submerged in the swamplands of Florida, and they were still working perfectly, not letting Clint ignore his stupid phone. A glance showed the message was from Phil, and a swipe revealed that Phil was asking Clint to come to his office.

Again.

Well, shit.

He sighed before turning right back around, tucking his phone back away as his feet beat the familiar trail to his CO’s office. Over the past few weeks, Natasha had tried to ask about how often Clint was called to Phil’s office but, well; he was a troublemaker. That was the one thing everyone had always agreed on, and he wouldn’t let go of that. Sometimes it felt like the only solid thing under his feet, the knowledge that he could piss pretty much anyone off with the right joke.

The door to Phil’s office jerked open just as Clint raised his hand to knock. Clint glared down, only to meet Phil’s answering frown. “Come on,” Phil bit out gruffly, pushing out into the hallway. 

Clint backed up, breath catching as his back hit the wall behind him. A flash of arousal worked its way down to Clint’s gut as Phil turned his back, locking the office door. Phil was wearing a tailored suit, because when  _ wasn’t _ he, and from here Clint started to notice the way it caught on Phil’s ass, accentuating what was there.

Clint’s eyes flicked upwards as Phil turned, flush creeping over Clint’s cheeks. The barest trace of a smile lit at the edges of Phil’s face before the other man jerked his head and began striding down the hallway. Dutifully, Clint followed, keeping his eyes roving over the hallways, making sure he knew where they were going.

Just in case he had to get out...creatively. Again.

They walked in silence, making their way out of the offices and down a stairwell. They kept moving down and down until finally Clint realized they were heading to the parking garage. A nervous thrum went through him, so he risked a question. “We goin’ somewhere, Phil?”

Without glancing back, Phil replied, “you’ll go where I tell you,  _ Agent _ .”

Clint huffed out a breath, rolling his eyes at the obnoxious secrecy and doing his best to bury the fear that he had done something wrong, that he deserved whatever was going to happen. 

They made their way to a bright red Corvette, where Phil opened the passenger door and gestured Clint inside. Clint shot Phil a confused glance, but got in, pulling the seat belt across before looking back up. Phil had closed the door and was now leaning down, looming threateningly with a glint in his eye.

“Just remember,” Phil said, and Clint had to repress a shiver, “you deserve everything that is about to happen.”

Clint blinked as Phil stood back up and strode to the other side of the car.  _ This car is too nice...what….what is going to happen tonight? _ Fear gripped him briefly, and he barely noticed as the car started until the night air hit his face and Clint relaxed subconsciously. 

Even up here in New York, the fall nights felt crisp and right, earthy in a way that could only be replicated by the trees decaying around them, transforming to something stunningly gorgeous before shedding and becoming bare. Clint let himself get lost in the sensation of the wind across his face, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to see how few stars were out here, or be tempted to glance over at the agent in charge of him. No, if he looked at Phil, the only thing that would happen is the return of the mixing arousal and fear, in anticipation of whatever was going to happen.

That he would  _ deserve? _ What the fuck.

Clint lost track of time, only opening his eyes when the wind in died down, the car rolling to a stop before Phil cut the engine. Sighing, Clint looked up to see a little brownstone, cute and quaint and not at  _ all _ what he’d imagined Phil living in. Clint cut a glance back at Phil, but Phil was already half out of the car with his back turned. 

Shaking his head, Clint got out himself and wandered up the stairs to the front door. Phil moved silently behind him, but Clint felt electrified by Phil’s presence, a constant need to be conscious of the other man’s presence. He couldn’t forget Phil was behind him if he tried. Phil brushed past him, unlocking the door and barely holding it open long enough for Clint to catch it and squeeze inside. 

The interior was dark, with a stairwell in the entryway that Phil was already halfway up. Phil paused, turning, and Clint felt the stare boring holes into him, even if he couldn’t necessarily see the eyes behind it. “Lock the goddamn door, Agent.”

Clint turned to do just that, deciding he didn’t want to risk anything more by antagonizing Phil in his own home. He’d followed the man to a goddamn secondary location, and all of his weapons were back in his duffel at the compound. Useless.

As he flicked the locks into place, Clint noticed the blink of a security system light nearby. Apparently in addition to having a ridiculous car and a ridiculous home, Phil also had a ridiculous security system that recognized when the door was  _ locked _ . Augh.

Clint cast another glance at the security system, some familiarity prickling over him….had this been one of the places he’d pilfered from before? Was  _ that _ why…..

But Phil snapped his fingers and Clint jumped.  _ Right. Follow Phil now, try to remember all of the places you broke into later, Barton.  _ He climbed the stairs trepidatiously, noting which stairs creaked, eyes focused on the landing above. There was the faint buzz of building nerves, the anticipation of a new punishment, but Clint buried those feelings. They wouldn’t help get through whatever was about to happen, would only make his responses laggy and less-than-satisfactory. 

Upstairs there were three doors, two closed and one spilling light into the hallway. Clint headed for the open doorway and was rewarded with a bedroom, done in shades of white and grey with one wall a deep red. Clint hated it immediately, even as it continued to niggle at his memory.

Phil was rifling through a wooden armoire, not even glancing up as Clint entered. “Get undressed and get on the bed,” Phil commanded before leaving the room.

Clint rolled his eyes, but did as instructed. He hesitated after taking his shirt off, debating, but eventually caved and folded it, along with the rest of his clothes. He’d never been to Phil’s house before, and that struck terror deeper than Clint would ever admit. Deep enough that he wasn’t going to fuck with Phil anymore than he had to tonight. There was no telling what punishment lay ahead; no sense in tempting fate when Phil could  _ definitely _ dispose of Clint’s body with no fuss at all. 

He’d rather be useful.

Once Clint was naked, clothes folded neatly on a chair in the corner, he climbed onto the bed and arranged himself on his side, adopting the most come-hither expression he could manage.

It was another few minutes before Phil finally turned, casting an appraising glance over Clint. “Very nice,” he smirked, then tossed a length of rope onto the bed. “I had something else in mind, however. On your stomach, arms above you.”

Clint repressed a shiver at the note of command in Phil’s voice, the same steel he had on missions when things were going sideways. Flipping over, Clint realized that there was no blanket on the bed, that he was resting on the silken top sheet instead. He wiggled his ass, trying to elicit  _ something _ out of Phil and ignoring the too-soft texture against his flaccid dick.

Clint let out a yelp as Phil smacked his ass, hard and quickly. “That’s what you get for teasing,” Phil commented, coming around the side of the bed to tie Clint’s forearms together. Once they were secured, Phil looped the ropes around the headboard and secured them with a few deft knots. His ropework was actually impressive for someone who primarily dealt with paperwork, and had done for a few years. It started Clint wondering about how often Phil had done this, about how many other agents had been strung up like this, about how many other people’s mouths were wet and used from Phil having his way with them…

Fortunately, Phil chose that exact moment to start tugging Clint’s legs apart, wrapping another segment of rope around his ankle and dislodging the depressing imagined litany of partners that had shared Clint’s fate before now, and the wholly unsettling jealousy that image sparked.

Twisting around, Clint watched as Phil wrapped his other leg, tying it off to the leg of the bed. The result was limited movement, between Clint’s spread legs and the tethered arms stretched above his head. 

Clint tugged at the ropes, testing each and discovering that there was very little slack, that it would take  _ work _ to get out of the ropes holding his arms together. Before he could properly start planning an escape for the knots however, something cool touched his bare ass, causing him to jump. Clint tried to twist around to see what was happening, but a hand shoved him roughly back down onto the bed.

“You stay there,” Phil growled. The hands wandered lower, until Clint felt Phil massaging over his ass. “You’re just here to do what I say and take what I give. Don’t act up and I won’t have to get out the gag. Nod once if you understand what I’m telling you,  _ Agent _ .”

The last word was spit out mockingly, but Clint ignored it, giving a small nod. Phil was going to need to do more than that to get under Clint’s skin; Clint knew this game too well, knew what was coming and how to ignore it. He had perfected the art of not feeling what was being done, bundling himself up and pretending not to cry about it later.

This was normal.

This is what he deserved.

Phil gave an approving noise before working his fingers down further, and then inside. At some point a tongue joined the fingers in Clint’s ass, but by that time he’d already sunk into a different headspace, thinking of what types of trick arrows he’d try to make next, remembering the constellations he missed most from life on the road, going over the faces of various agents to make sure he remembered their names and departments.

By the time Phil was well and truly fucking Clint, he was boneless, unaware of the little hitching noises involuntarily escaping his mouth. He was a thousand miles away, where life was easier, where he didn’t have to think about being used as a wet hole. 

Back when he was with Bill, Clint had still listened to the compliments, had paid attention to the noises he made, tried to do better, to be better, but he’d learned since then. He didn’t get to keep compliments, they were just what Barney had called pillow promises. At the end, Bill always made sure to let Clint know that he was scum. That he was just a warm place for Bill’s cock, that nothing Bill said had  _ meant _ anything.

And wasn’t that just the same as his father. As Barney.

So Clint learned to shove it all down, way down deep, and just float away. At some point Phil started smacking his ass, the pain dimly registering. Eventually, Clint could feel the shuddering movement inside him, shoving away any sensation that his prostate tried to throw at him. Phil collapsed on top of Clint, absently pressing kisses into Clint’s shoulders before he levered himself up again, padding quietly out of the bedroom. 

It was harder to hold onto the drifting mindless space without the wet slap of skin on skin or the uncomfortable fullness, so Clint regrettably found himself back in his own body by the time Phil had returned and begun wiping Clint down with what felt like a damp cloth. Clint shuddered as the fabric brushed over his balls, but Phil just made a small derisive noise before leaving again. 

Clint melted into the disgustingly slick sheets, feeling boneless and exhausted despite the fact that he didn’t  _ do _ anything, just laid there and taken it, a million miles away. Phil came back a few moments later, or maybe a few hours; Clint was far too out of it to keep track of time. Something soft hit his hip, and after a moment, he realized that he’d been untied when his hand hit the fabric of his shirt.  _ Right. Leaving, then. _

Clint stumbled to his feet, shoving his clothes back on in quick jerky movements as Phil stripped the sheets off the bed. In any other scenario, it would have been intolerably domestic, but not now. Clint didn’t get that, didn’t deserve people taking care of him, actually  _ keeping _ him. He was made to be cast aside, by father, brother, the circus, his handler. He just needed to keep being useful long enough to find another place to hole up. 

“I’ll show you out,” Phil said once Clint was fully dressed and making his way towards the door. Startled, Clint glanced over at Phil, still standing next to the bed with a pile of soiled sheets at his feet. Once their eyes locked, Phil gave him a leer, causing Clint’s gut to give another sickening lurch. “You were better than I expected, pretty on my sheets. Maybe next time I’ll bring a few of the others, pass you around until you can’t move, then string you up and keep going. How does that sound?”

Clint nodded, but when Phil just stared back, raising an eyebrow, Clint replied, “whatever you want. I’m here for you.”

Phil smirked at that and nodded once. “You’re mine.” He gestured towards the door. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

Fortunately that just meant Phil calling a cab for Clint, not physically following him all the way back to his room. The memory of what had occurred was more difficult to shake this time, the feeling of the sheets burned into his skin, the wet slaps chasing around his mind even after he took his aids out. Clint lay on his mattress, staring up at the ceiling, slowly walking himself through his old Amazing Hawkeye routine. So far it was the only thing that let him forget, that kept his head empty enough that when his eyes eventually closed from exhaustion, the faces of his past wouldn’t swim forward. 

By the 6th recitation, Clint’s eyes were starting to burn but his head was blessedly empty for everything except  _ tumble, stand, pose, jump, shoot _ and the roar of a long-forgotten crowd...

↝↜❍↝🛡↜❍↝↜


	6. Fucking Cameras

There had been a camera.

Of fucking  _ course _ there had been a camera. Because Phil was a sick motherfucker, even by Clint’s standards, so of course he’d filmed the whole fucking thing for his own pleasure later.

Not only that, but he’d apparently been planning on watching  _ at fucking work _ , because instead of being kept on a closed circuit where no other sickos could get at it, he’d uploaded it to a theoretically secure server when he  _ actively worked with fucking super spies. _

So of course, of  _ fucking course _ it had been leaked all over the agency. Frankly, it was a miracle that his face wasn’t on the 6 o’clock news. No, he’d just heard some against snickering behind his back in the hallway, like this was some tv show about fucking high schoolers, like someone would break into song about Clint’s inadequacies.

About half an hour later, a mass email went out from an anonymous address with the video attached. He’d been training, but when someone else’s phone started making suspiciously familiar whimpering moans, he dropped the dumbell he’d been holding to storm over. 

The agent had been so shocked that Clint was able to peer over his shoulder without effort and then was just…. mortified. He’d turned and left after that, walking briskly to the locker room, not stopping to shower between the catcalls and the sounds of his own moans being replayed at him, constant and overlapping. By the time he hit the hallway, he couldn’t tell which noises were echoing out from the locker room and which were just banging around his head, replaying that night over and over and over and over….

_ This is it. This is the end of this place for me. They...they will come for me. Shit. I fucked a superior officer. I’m fucking done with.  _ He was in a full blown panic by the time he reached his rooms, but there wasn’t time to think. Clint started shoving every single thing he owned into his duffle, pausing for a moment as he stared at the bow in the corner. 

It...It was  _ his _ , but it had been a gift from Phil. There was that strange slimy ball of emotion twisting in his gut at the thought, but…

But Phil liked him. He would….but Phil liked him, right? He would….he would come for Clint.

He wasn’t like Barney. Right?

Clint stood there, frozen, rooted to the spot for long, too long, and suddenly there was a knocking on his door. “Agent Barton?” Maria Hill’s voice floated through the door before the handle began to shake. Fortunately, he’d had enough presence of mind to lock it, but the additional adrenaline surge of Hill’s voice was enough for him to make up his mind.

Clint slung the duffel over his shoulder, grabbed his bow, and started to climb onto the dresser. They'd put him on the second floor, and it was too easy to jimmy the window open, squeeze out, and drop onto the ground to the tune of Deputy Director Hill banging ever more insistently at the door. 

Clint stayed crouched for a moment, taking stock of his aching feet and knees, but he spotted a flashlight bobbing around the corner of the building, and took that as his cue to take off. 

The next several hours were a blur. Leaving the compound was surprisingly easy, and Clint kept a tally of the security breaches to bring up at the next debrief...before realizing that he wouldn't  _ get _ another debrief. 

The best he could hope for would be for Phil to meet him somewhere. Maybe...maybe Phil could talk his way out of this. Clint could head to the safe house Phil had told him about in case shit went sideways...and then what. Be a- a "kept" man?

Well. 

It wasn't the worst he'd had. 

Two hours later, Clint found himself on the doorstep of the safehouse, a little two story thing in Jersey. He nearly fell over when he crouched to retrieve the key from under the mat. Clint steadied himself on the door as he straightened back up slowly, finally taking stock. He'd boarded the trains and busses to get here in a daze, focusing on the destination and ignoring everything without and within himself. 

Now he was….bone tired, exhausted in every sense of the word. He managed to get the door open, stumbling inside, dropping his bag and bow, and kicking the door closed behind him. Looking around blearily, Clint's eye caught on a well-worn plaid couch in front of a fireplace. Not even bothering to toe off his boots, Clint collapsed face first and began to snore almost immediately.

↝↜❍↝🛡↜❍↝↜

The next few days were a tense haze of exploring the house, and waiting for Phil. The house wasn't fancy or high-tech like Phil's place had been, but Clint had still found a trapdoor to a basement that was decked out as a sleek weapons cache. The basement was the most high-tech part of the house, and the only other computer he could find was wired into the headboard of the main bedroom.

_ That  _ one was hooked up to a closed circuit surveillance system, with the only cameras either outside the house or in the bedroom. Clint had hesitated when he'd first found it, not wanting to invoke Phil's ire more than he needed to. Eventually, he left it alone, but made sure to stay out of that room, sleeping down the hall in a smaller but more private room. 

After the first day with no sign of SHIELD, Clint risked a walk to the corner store. There hadn't been much of anything in the house, but when Clint got to the grocery, he froze. After about ten minutes of looking blankly at a shelf, an employee finally came by, taking his elbow and asking "sir? Sir, are you okay?"

Clint shook his head, tearing his gaze away from the bread to flash a smile at the woman. "Yeah, I'm fine, sorry. Just...so many choices, ya know?"

It was lame, even to his own ears, as he cast a hand at different brands and flavors. It's not like he was going to manage to actually  _ make _ anything when he got back to the safehouse, why was he even in this aisle?

Before that thought could swallow him whole, the woman was pushing a loaf into his hands. "This is the kind my wife likes. Let me know if you need anything, okay? I'll be up at the front."

He nodded at her dumbly, brow furrowed, but she just gave him a cautious smile and headed back to the registers at the front. Clint shook himself again, turning to go find the frozen section, but keeping hold of the bread anyway. 

↝↜❍↝🛡↜❍↝↜


	7. Safe At Last? Alone Anyway...

Clint grabbed the pizza box out of the fridge, focused on the last precious slices that awaited him. It had been a few weeks, long stretches of time with not enough to fill them. He’d splurged, gotten delivery a few days ago, one of the only things that really helped him mark the passage of time alone in Phil’s safehouse.

Carefully balancing the box while he flipped the lid open, Clint tossed the pizza on a plate that he maybe used for lunch yesterday...but lunch yesterday had also been pizza, so at least all the crumbs would taste the same. 

He absentmindedly threw the empty pizza box onto the stack that lingered between the kitchen and living room while contemplating his food.

Cold pizza was fine, should be good enough for him. Ex-Carnie. Ex-Assassin. Ex-Agent. Ex-Worth Something.

But hey. It was his birthday. He deserved something a little better than rock-hard crust and flaky-cold cheese.

Clint ripped half a paper towel and shoved it under the sink faucet, only turning the water on for a moment before shutting it back off and squeezing the wet ball. It was calming, almost, this ritual he had picked up from Barney…

_ Treat yourself better than that at least. _ _   
_ A scoff, the thunk of shoes hitting the ground as Barney toed them off.   
_ Ain’t got much in this shithole, so what we’ve got, we’re gonna do right. _

The wet in his hand and the drip in the metal sink brought him back. Clint released his death grip on the paper towel, carefully unfurling it to cover the slices before throwing it all in the microwave. 

He just slumped against the counter while he waited, staring at a stain in the floor that he didn’t remember putting there. Must’ve been a bad night. Might’ve been after a mission.

Back when he was good for anything.

_ A fist coming towards him. _ __   
_ Shooting arrow after arrow at the enemy. _ _   
_ __ The bright flash of too-close gunfire, a sudden ringing in his ears.

**_BEEEEEEEEP_ **

Clint startled, knocking an elbow into the microwave behind him and letting out a curse. He clutched his arm for a moment before grabbing his pizza out, tossing the wet and  _ hot _ paper towel from hand to hand before finally throwing it in the trash. 

How long had it been now, three weeks? And he was still alone. Clint took his plate and the stone cold coffee he’d left on the counter and headed into the living room, flopping down on the couch. How long would he hold out before finally admitting to himself that Phil had left him?

No, maybe SHIELD had just detained him. Maybe he just couldn’t afford to leave, to come collect Clint.

_ He couldn’t even send you an email? _ It was Barney’s voice, the blistering snarky commentary that followed him around.  _ He’s left you. How long is it going to take you to figure out that no one wants you, Clint? _ **_No one_ ** _ wants you around. _

Clint punched the button for the remote, tears in his eyes as he found a baking show and shoved the leftover pizza in his mouth.

Phil would come. He would.

↝↜❍↝🛡↜❍↝↜

It was three days later before Clint was packing his bag again. He’d waited long enough as it was, and if he spent another week cooped up in here, he would go insane. Just as he was going through the last checks of the bathroom though, there was a knock on the door. 

Clint froze, ice running through his veins even as his heart thudded with hope. Would it be Phil?  _ Thump. _ Or was it SHIELD, coming to collect their rogue agent?  _ Thump thump. _

Backtracking into the bedroom, Clint grabbed his usual handgun, holding it behind himself as he approached the door, peering out the keyhole.

There was no one there.

Well, that pretty much confirmed that it was SHIELD then, didn’t it? It wasn’t particularly hard to hide from the keyhole like that, and they wouldn’t want to tip him off. Clint considered going to grab his bow, but there was another  _ thump thump thump, _ and he didn’t want to risk them breaking down the door.

This was Phil’s place, after all. 

So Clint did the dumbest thing he could think of; he eased the door open, keeping himself angled so the gun was hidden, ready to shoot if necessary. For a moment, he thought the porch was truly deserted, and he’d just been temporarily haunted by a ghost. 

But then there was a red blur, and one of the only people who had ever been able to take Clint down in a match was sitting on his chest, holding his gun. 

Natasha.

“So they sent you to bring me in?” Clint shot her a glare, trying to take stock of their positions, of any advantage he might be able to leverage.

Natasha sighed, disassembling his gun and tossing the pieces in opposite directions. “No one sent me, Clint. I came to get you while everyone else is distracted by the shitstorm that is ex-Agent Phil fucking Coulson.”

Clint blinked for a moment, thrown off by her bitter tone of voice, and the fact that she wasn’t holding a gun to his head.  _ Not that she needs it to beat you _ , Barney’s voice chimed in helpfully. “W-what do you mean? Ex-Agent?”

He watched as her lips thinned; angry at him? Probably; him running was probably the reason Phil had lost his job. Shit, he ruined everyone he touched, he should just—

“Clint.” Natasha’s voice was so gentle, so jarringly different than where his thought spiral had been heading that Clint jerked as he refocused on her. “Clint, what he did to you was wrong. He was brought in for questioning and terminated, as was the asshole that leaked that fucking tape.”

“But….how did they get the video?’ Clint had spotted the cameras, of course he had, but he knew Phil kept things locked down, secure….But SHIELD  _ was _ an agency of super-spies. He should’ve known better.

There was the barest hint of a flush at the base of Natasha’s neck that vanished so quickly, Clint almost thought he had imagined it. “I’m sorry, Clint. I hacked into Phil’s system after I heard about that briefing; you don’t just treat your best agent like that. When I saw….” Natasha actually shifted, eyes flicking to the side and back again. She was properly agitated, which surprised Clint almost more than her hacking into Coulson’s video feeds to see what was going on. “I sent it straight to Hill, but apparently Rumlow had access to her drives and thought it would be hilarious to spread it around.” Clint couldn’t see, couldn’t focus on anything but her voice and the humility creeping up to wash over him, drag him out to sea. “Clint, I’m sorry, no one was meant to see that. And Rumlow is termed now too, and every copy of that video we could find has been removed.”

Clint thunked his head against the floor. He’d always kind of wondered if he’d be any good at making pornos, but what a way to start. Some dark, twisted part of his brain called out that he could probably find a remaining copy of the video and sell it. Could probably launch a career off that, since his name would be mud with the Agency anyway.

“-can still come back. Clint? Are you hearing me?” The weight lifted from his torso, and he was vaguely aware of someone pulling him upright, leading him over to the couch. He drifted for another few moments, and then a glass was pressed into his hand and he was drinking.

Everything was crumbling. It felt like something had imploded, the last branch he was holding onto suddenly cracking, and everything Clint knew had been uprooted. Again. He’d thought those days were behind him, but apparently that was something he could never shake. Clint would never actually  _ belong _ anywhere, just masquerade from place to place until someone caught him at it and tossed him out again. 

His chest felt solidified, like someone had dumped cement all through him to make sure he would stick together, holding back the damn of tears that would escape given half a chance. By the time he noticed his cup was empty, Natasha had carefully taken it from him, holding his hands as she forced him to look into her eyes.

“Clint. Are you back with me?” Concern was flickering through her eyes, and it took Clint a minute to work out why. 

_ Of course. SHIELD wouldn’t want to lose an asset. Gotta get your shit together, Barton, be useful. _ “Yeah,” he croaked, voice straining. Clint tried on a smile, but that just deepened Natasha’s frown. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Besides, it’s not like plenty of people haven’t seen plenty of me before, right?”

Natasha winced at that, which baffled Clint. He was always putting himself on display, in the showers or lounging around the rec room, and flirted with most of the people they worked with. That had been one of the early lessons; people would take whatever they wanted from his body, but if he actively showed it off, at least he could pretend that he had asked for it. 

“Clint, that doesn’t mean-” Natasha stopped, and there was a flash of incomprehensible rage before she drew a knife and drove it deep into the coffee table. Clint just...stared at it for a moment as Natasha turned back to him, steel in her voice. “It doesn’t matter what you wore or what you showed off. He had no right to take that from you. Nothing you did could have possibly excused his actions.”

Clint blinked. “He’s my commanding officer.”

The waves of blistering anger were practically rolling off Natasha as she replied. “That only makes what he did worse, Clint.  _ No one _ should take advantage of someone else like that. The fact that he used his position to pressure you, to make you feel like you  _ had  _ to-” Natasha shuddered, and Clint felt the first shiver of ice unfurl from his unfeeling chest. “It’s disgusting. I’m half tempted to carve some recourse out of his  _ skin _ , but I think Maria might actually stop me.”

If what Phil had been doing was wrong….was that gut-twist when he was stuffed under the desk, acting as a cock warmer, did that mean he didn’t enjoy that? Should he not have enjoyed that? Because that feeling had been pleasure, right?

That was how you were  _ supposed _ to feel during sex.

Because that’s how it had felt with Bill.

_ Shit. _

If what Phil had been doing was wrong, then that meant what Bill had been doing was wrong too, right? It’s not like either of them had trapped him anywhere—

“Clint?” Someone was gently shaking him, and he blinked up.  _ Natasha, right. _ “Clint, what’s going on?”

“They didn’t keep me trapped, though. I could come and go whenever I wanted, and they didn’t hurt me, not really, not anything that would last-”

“Clint.” Natasha levelled a hard gaze at him. “He still used his authority to put you in a position where saying no wasn’t a viable option. He was in charge of your well being, Clint.” She paused then as Clint’s world view shifted to reimagine Phil  _ and Bill dammit _ as people who hadn’t really given him a choice….

“That was still rape, Clint.”

He stared at her. “I didn’t say no.”

Her gaze was unrelenting, and it surprised him a little, that she would give no ground here. “Even if you had said yes, it would have been coerced at best. Clint, he leveraged his position against you. That’s….that’s  _ actually _ criminal. He controls your missions, he makes the calls on your plays, he is in charge of your safety. And  _ he _ jepordized that by pushing you for sex.”

Clint flinched at the word ‘sex,’ then wondered why he had.

It’s not like he hadn’t had plenty of sex before….but now that he thought about it, anything that wasn’t Phil or Bill had been random hookups in bars, or with other carnies. Nothing lasting, just a counterpoint to the sinking dread in his stomach whenever he thought about the men who normally liked to cover him in their seed, who liked to mark him as theirs any way they could.

They had taken and taken and  _ taken _ from him, and he had done  _ nothing _ about it. The World Famous Hawkeye had stood by while they had used him. 

Clint stood up, a blanket falling from around his shoulders. His hand was shaking, but that was fine; he had shot in worse conditions. He would — what would he do? He would get his bow and go find Phil. Treat him like a pincushion, give back all Phil had taken from him. Clint only lamented that Bill had come up listed as dead of natural causes when he’d searched SHIELD’s database for Carson’s Circus. 

Heaving breaths as anger coursed through him, Clint stalked into the bedroom where his bag lay abandoned. He grabbed it, and the bow and quiver waiting next to the door. Turning to storm back out, Clint found that Natasha had drifted into the doorway, one eyebrow raised in question. 

Clint growled and moved to brush past her, but she caught his arm. “I’m not going to stop you, but you need to let me help.”

“I don’t  _ need _ to let anyone do anything.” Clint pulled out of her grip and was almost to the front door before her words stopped him.

“I’m following you, one way or another. That asshole deserves all you can dish out and worse, so I’m going to make sure there aren’t any pieces when you’re done.” Clint turned to see that she was still leaning against the door jamb, arms now crossed and hips canted. “Either you let me drive, or I’m just going to be following you the whole way anyway.”

Clint glared at her while he thought that over. He couldn’t keep running this hot and angry indefinitely. He would succumb to the swell of emotions he was pushing down eventually, and he needed to keep his shit together in order to track down Phil in whatever hole SHIELD had thrown him in and carve out his pound of flesh. Natasha was a good agent, would be a good asset, but that still drove the question— “Why would you help me?”

Natasha blinked, looking for all the world like he should’ve known the answer to that. “Besides the fact that he has done terrible things that he needs to pay for?” She pushed off the door jamb, taking a couple tentative steps towards him before she stopped. “Because we’re friends, Clint.”

It was Clint’s turn to stand there dumbstruck, even as his bag’s strap was burning against his hand, even as the tightly curled rage was slowly slipping away. He’d been nice to her, they’d sparred together and shared jokes and complained about the other agents. Over the past couple of months, they’d gotten to the point where they didn’t even need to speak in full sentences to be understood; usually a well timed look was enough. He supposed that  _ was _ what friendship was, but it still gave him pause. Clint didn’t have a lot of experience with that kind of thing, but...but it made sense, it fit. 

So. He had backup then.

Clint let a tentative smile work its way onto his face. He knew it wouldn’t reach his eyes, knew that the blankness was shielding the pain and betrayal there, but Natasha smiled back anyway. “Alright then,” and he turned back around, “let’s get going.”

↝↜❍↝🛡↜❍↝↜


	8. Tahiti

It didn’t take long to drive back to the compound. On the way, they plotted out who they would need to interact with, what they would say about Clint’s absence, and where Phil was probably being held. 

They agreed it was unlikely that SHIELD would turn over one of their own to any other agency, so once they entered and explained Clint had been on a leave of absence, they would need to make their way into the bowels of the building and begin searching. 

Unfortunately, things went sideways as soon as they pulled up to the SHIELD compound. The guard had let them through to the parking lot, but as they were walking up to the main entrance, none other than Maria Hill strode out to greet them.

“Hello, Agent Romanoff. I see you’ve managed to locate Agent Barton! Excellent work, if you’ll both come to my office.” And with that, the Deputy Director turned and stalked back inside the building.

Clint and Natasha exchanged a glance, Natasha quirking an eyebrow as Clint gave half a shrug, before they both turned to catch up. As Natasha opened her mouth, presumably to explain why they couldn’t go to her office at that particular moment, Maria cut her off with a wave of a hand.

“I realize you just got back, Agent Barton, and I assure you I will give you time to set your things down afterwards, but first I’m afraid I must debrief you.” 

They continued following her down the twist of hallways, Clint shooting a quizzical glance to Natasha as he replied, “of course,” before following in silence. 

Eventually, they reached Maria’s office, and she carefully stood aside to close the door behind them, walking around where they’d taken seats to lean against her desk. “I’m sorry to do this, Agent Barton, I realize you’ve been through a lot.” She paused and Clint nodded, still confused. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Phil Coulson is no longer an agent with SHIELD.”

Hearing his name stung in a weird, distant way that Clint immediately locked away. They were on a mission. No time for emotional baggage.

“I deeply regret the leaking of that footage. You must understand, we were using the footage to build evidence surrounding former Agent Coulson, but — well.” Hill blew out a breath, shaking her head minutely before regaining her composure. “The agent responsible for the leak has also been removed.”

“So he’s just— ” Clint started, but found his throat had locked up. Because if Phil wasn’t with SHIELD anymore, that meant he really  _ hadn’t _ come to get Clint.  _ Of course he didn’t, you useless piece of— _

A squeeze on his knee interrupted those thoughts, and Clint glanced at Natasha gratefully. She flashed him the smallest of smiles, keeping her hand on his knee as she turned back to Hill. “I believe Clint was going to ask where we might find Coulson? There was an unresolved matter—”

“You cannot go looking for him.” Hill’s voice brooked no argument, but Clint caught the way Natasha stilled. She wasn’t giving up.

Clint looked back down at his knee, where her hand still rested. She wasn’t giving up  _ on him. _

Oh.

“We need to speak with him.” There were daggers in Natasha’s gaze and murder in her spine, and Clint tried to draw strength from it. What had happened was wrong, and they were going to fucking do something about it. “Where. Is. He.”

Hill sighed again, drawing Clint’s gaze back as he sat straighter, determination renewed. “I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but I suspect you’ll be a bigger pain in my ass if I don’t. Here, get up, come with me.”

Hill led them out of the room, and as they passed into the elevator, Clint stared as Hill hit the button for a floor at the very bottom of the subterranean portion of the facility. “He’s still  _ here?” _

Neither of them reacted to his vehemence, Hill merely shifting as she responded. “In a manner of speaking.”

“What is  _ that _ supposed to mean?” Clint could feel his nerves fraying, wanting to just find Phil and extract his revenge, hang the consequences.

“You’ll see.”

The passage downwards was long, so long that Clint started to actually get a little claustrophobic. It was unusual, given how much time he usually spent in the vents, but thoughts of Phil’s touch, of his voice carrying over the crowds, of the way his ass looked in those fucking slacks all kept flashing in front of Clint, until he was so on edge by the time the elevator dinged open that he burst into the hallway without knowing where they were going.

Hill stepped out after him and led the rest of the way down a maze of hallways while Clint tried to focus on making a mental map of where they were in the facility. He’d never been down this far before, the level mostly restricted, but Hill walked confidently before slowing at the end of a corridor facing an opaque door. Taking a breath, Hill gestured at the door in front of them. “You do not know this place exists. You are not going to see what I’m about to show you. Clear?”

Clint rolled his eyes, muttering, “is she taking lessons from Fury?”

Hill’s mouth thinned, but Natasha gave half a chuckle, so he considered it a win. “Technically, Coulson is still in the facility,” Hill continued. “However, since his actions were actively harmful to our agents, and he knows a great deal more about SHIELD’s structure than we want getting in the hands of anyone else, we put him on ice. It would’ve been more clean and convenient if he had been killed on an away mission, but what can you do.”

A moment passed, with Clint’s brain stunned into silence.  _ Kept on ice…. _

“Can we see him?” Thank fuck for Natasha. 

Hill gestured at the door, and Natasha stepped through, Clint drifting in behind her as though he were in a dream. The room was sterile, like you’d see in a surgical suite or…..Clint swallowed past the thought. This was not a morgue. It was a cryo freezer, walls lined with large clear tubes, big enough to stand in, some empty, some not. They wandered through, peering through frosted over glass until Natasha found him. “Clint, here.”

There he was, in that same damn suit Clint had seen him in last. There was a readout next to the container, monitoring vitals, and a series of numbers counting down. 

“He’ll be defrosted, sedated, and checked over once a year.” Clint startled, not having noticed Hill following them into the room. “We keep them under for five years to start, depending on what they’ve done. He’ll get ten, minimum. It’s the best method we’ve found for dealing with issues within the higher-clearance ranks.”

Clint couldn’t take his eyes off Phil, who stood there as though he were sleeping in this glass case that would be his home for the next ten years. Some distant part of Clint thought of how horrifying it would be to wake up and realize that ten years had passed.

But then he thought of almost getting caught after Phil had instructed Clint to warm his cock. He thought of his knees on the gravel in that back alley as his superior officer had his way with Clint’s mouth. He thought about the bedroom, about those silken sheets. He thought about the promise of more being brought to watch, to touch. He thought about the recording.

He thought about the man who had shown up, saving a teenager who had just been abandoned by the circus, only to continue using him as a sex toy.

Yeah. This was more than fair.

Clint turned away, feeling numb and floaty and also like he might puke at any moment, finding his way back to that hallway, hiding his face against the cool wall. He could hear the murmur of Natasha asking Hill questions, but he let the voices wash over him, let them just be noises next to the whoosh of air circulating and the occasional beep of a machine.

He was safe.

He was  _ safe _ .

Phil wasn’t going to touch him anymore. No one was.

Something broke in Clint at that. Because at least Phil  _ had _ touched him, had reached out and interacted with Clint, and now he would be  _ alone, _ floating through space, contactless, and that thought— 

That thought was suddenly interrupted by a warm hand, turning him until he was curled around Natasha’s slim form, sobbing into her shoulder before he even realized tears had started to fall. He gripped onto her, forgetting the hallway and Hill and everything except that no one would find him  _ useful _ anymore.

But Natasha was here.

Natasha, who didn’t even like public displays of  _ anything _ , was holding him as he sobbed over the loss of….of someone that he didn’t even know how to quantify. And hey, look at that, she was touching him, rubbing small circles into his back as he cried. 

Clint let all of his pent up rage and frustration and fear and loss and fear and  _ fear _ flow out, holding on until all he could manage was hiccuping breaths, eyes dry and starting to puff up, feeling utterly empty, spent, like he was just an empty husk that you would call Clint but would blow over at the smallest breeze.

Through some herculean effort, Clint lifted his head off her shoulder, trying to muster a smile. “Thanks, Nat.” His voice was rough from crying, and he tipped his head back as he wiped the wetness from his face so he wouldn’t have to see her reaction.

“Anytime.”

He finally looked back down at her and saw the tiniest of smiles forming. Clint nodded once before looking over her shoulder. “Should probably get out of here, since we’re not supposed to know this level exists or anything.”

Natasha stilled again, so Clint glanced behind him, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, so he turned back to her quizzically. “I have a-” She paused, then huffed a breath, almost a laugh. “I have a place in Greenwich Village, fully stocked with vodka, beer, ben and jerrys, and shitty movies. If you were interested in not being alone, you could stay with me tonight.”

Clint was nodding before he was aware of what he was doing, just knowing that he did  _ not _ want to be alone right now, and that Natasha letting him into her secret apartment was probably some sign of trust that he should be paying attention to, but he was feeling too broken at this moment to worry about it. So instead, he just said “thank you,” and followed her as she led the way back to the elevator.

A small smile broke out on his face unbidden. Was this what having an actual friend was like? Maybe Natasha had a blender and they could make very very alcoholic milkshakes. More than anything, he was just glad to have somewhere to go that would be  _ safe _ .

“Clint.”

Looking up, he saw that Natasha was holding the door for him as he had been lagging behind, lost in thought. He jogged the couple steps into the elevator before punching the floor for the lobby. “Thanks, Natasha.”

“Stop thanking me or you can find someplace else to stay.”

Clint grinned at that, and he thought he saw a twinkle in her eye too. “How do you feel about alcoholic milkshakes?”

“Sounds like I finally have a good use for my blender.”

They shared a grin as the elevator took them back up and out of the facility. Tonight would be a good night. The first one in a long, long time.

↝↜❍↝🛡↜❍↝↜


End file.
